“Uninvited guests.”
Inna seemed to understand, nodding and saying, “Follow me.”
———
ZACHARIAH CROUCHED DOWN AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, KEEPING watch on the doorway ten meters away, listening to Tom Sagan talk to another woman.
Rócha had joined him.
The exit door slammed shut.
Darkness and quiet returned.
They needed to leave. The shots could have been heard in the cathedral and he did not want to be around when anyone came to investigate. Thankfully, they’d garnered a few uninterrupted minutes that had turned productive. He could only hope Alle would do what he asked.
“Jamison dead?” he whispered.
“Yes. But there’s something you need to know.”
He listened as Rócha told him what Jamison had said before being shot, the same thing Alle had reported. He now wondered about Béne Rowe. Had everything and everybody been compromised?
But first, “Go get the body and clean up any mess.”
He waited a few minutes before Rócha returned with Jamison slung across one shoulder. He led the way to the exit and carefully opened the inside latch. Daylight was fading into shadows.
“Wait here.”
He stepped out and casually walked to where another street led away from the alley. A trash receptacle caught his gaze. Small, but large enough. He returned to the iron door and noticed no latch or lock on the outside. This was a one-way portal. Tom Sagan had thought ahead.
Again.
Which only reinforced the notion that Sagan had lied to him.
“I’m leaving. Dump the body in that container around that corner, then join me at the car.”
———
ALLE FOUND HERSELF SHAKING. WAS IT FEAR? DOUBT? CONFUSION? She wasn’t sure. The woman who’d introduced herself as Inna Tretyakova, apparently an acquaintance of her father’s, had led them to a nearby U-bahn station. They’d taken the subway across town to a residential area heavy with apartments. The St. Stephen’s spire loomed in the darkening sky a mile or so away. A clock in the station had told her it was approaching 7:00 P.M.
Her father had said nothing on the train, speaking only briefly to Inna. The woman appeared to be in her forties, attractive, with blue eyes that had apprised her with a penetrating gaze. She’d introduced herself as an editor for Der Kurier, which she knew to be one of Vienna’s daily newspapers.
She told herself to stay calm, but she could not rid her mind of the sight of Brian Jamison being shot. She’d never seen such a thing. He’d been a danger, a person she’d never accepted and never believed. He’d lied to her outside the cathedral about being alone. He spoke Hebrew, carried a gun—none of it made sense.
What was happening here?
She was a twenty-five-year-old graduate student with an interest in Columbus who wrote an article for a British periodical. One day she was in Seville wading through 500-year-old documents, the next she was in Austria involved with a man searching for the Temple treasure. Now she was on the run with her father, a man she deeply resented, acting as a spy.
Inna led them to a modest building and up to a third-floor apartment, not much bigger than the one Zachariah had provided her. This unit held Inna and her two children, both teenagers, whom she met. No husband, Inna explained, as they had divorced five years ago.
“You didn’t mention that earlier,” her father said.
“How was it important? You asked for my help and I gave it. Now tell me what happened back there.”
“A man was killed.”
Alle wanted to know, “What did you give Zachariah?”
“Do you have any idea the trauma you put me through?” her father asked. “I thought you were in danger. I watched while men—”
“That was real.”
And she meant it. She could still feel their disgusting touches.
“I took a lot of chances for you,” her father said.
“I was told you were about to kill yourself.”
“A few more seconds and I would have never been a problem for you again.”
“I’m not sorry for what I did. It had to be done. There’s a lot at stake here.”
“Enlighten me.”
That she did not plan to do, especially in front of a stranger, whom she knew nothing about.
So she asked again, “What was it you found in Grandfather’s grave?”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ZACHARIAH STEPPED FROM THE CAR AND TOLD RÓCHA TO wait behind the wheel. They’d driven out of central downtown to Vienna’s western outskirts and Schönbrunn. Once the residence of the Hapsburg emperors, now the Baroque palace stood as a tourist attraction.
And a popular one.
He’d visited once himself, admiring some of the 1,400 rooms, particularly impressed by the Hall of Mirrors where, he’d been told, a six-year-old Mozart once performed. Its magnificent grand gallery was where delegates to the Congress of Vienna danced away the night in 1815, after carving up Napoleon’s defeated empire. He admired that audacity.
The palace interior was closed for the day, but the gardens stayed open till dusk. Long promenades bisected rows of perfectly trimmed shrubs and a sea of late-winter flowers. An obelisk decorated the sky. Sculpted fountains gushed foamy water. He soaked in the careful mixture of color or style, allowing the ambience to soothe his raw nerves, as it had once surely done for emperors.
He hoped Alle Becket was doing as he asked. He’d already forwarded all calls from the phone at the estate to Rócha’s cell phone, which he’d commandeered before leaving the car. When Alle called he’d be instantly available. What concerned him now was Brian Jamison’s identity. So he’d made another call and arranged a meeting.
His contact within the Israeli embassy was an undersecretary who’d provided a wealth of valuable information. He was young, ambitious, and greedy. But sitting on the bench at the far end of the garden was a middle-aged woman. Tall, full-figured, with long black hair.
The Israeli ambassador to Austria.
She stood as he approached and said in Hebrew, “I thought it was time we spoke face-to-face.”
He was alarmed and considered leaving.
“Relax, Zachariah. I’m a friend.”
“Enlighten me.” He kept to Hebrew.
She smiled. “Always so careful, aren’t you? So prepared. Except for today.”
They knew each other. Given his status as one of the wealthiest Jews in this part of the world it was understandable he’d be courted.
And this woman had done so.
She’d once been a teacher who joined the diplomatic service, first assigned to Central Asia. She’d taught at the National Defense College and served as the Knesset’s political adviser, which surely brought her in contact with much of Israel’s political elite. She’d been described as tough, blunt to the point of arrogant, and brilliant.
“In what way have I not been careful?” he asked.
“I know what you’re doing. I’ve been watching.”
Now he was concerned.
“Tell me, Zachariah, who do you think will soon emerge as our new prime minister?”
He caught her point. “Your name has never been mentioned.”
She smiled. “Which is the way it should be. A front-runner today is a loser tomorrow.”
He agreed, but remained on high alert.
“What you plan is audacious,” she said. “Ingenious, too. And most of all, it could work. But it’s what comes after that will really matter, isn’t it?”
“And you are what comes after?”
“Israel is in need of another Iron Lady.”
He smiled at the reference to Golda Meir, and the term used to describe her strength long before the Brits attached it to Margaret Thatcher. The first and only woman, so far, to be Israel’s prime minister, she was called by many “the best man in government.” Strong-willed, straight talking, her gray-bunned hairdo had lent her another title: grandmother of the Jewish people. He recalled his father and grandfather speaking of her with a deep reverence. She was one of twenty-four signatories on the Israeli declaration of independence in 1948. The next day war broke out and she fought like everyone else. She ordered the hunting down and killing of all the terrorists who massacred Jewish athletes during the 1972 Olympics. And she commanded Israel during the Yom Kippur War, making smart decisions that saved the state.